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Authors: Dennis Cooper
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. . . well, do what exactly was the problem.
The weakest part of his impression had always been its hollowness, although I’ll grant that void was not particularly his fault. I’m no extrovert, even when I’m yelling, “Die, you piece of shit,” and every precocious, news-making ten-year-old “new Mozart” in the world is eventually discovered to be a piano-playing parrot.
Alfonse modeled the mechanics of my presence, but while his forgery was dutiful, it lacked the telltale oomph that came with my perverseness.
This lost ingredient, while piddling in the grander scheme of me—think of the line between the “car” an actor “drives” into a “wall” and the car-like prop in which his lifelike dummy burns alive—and which had never seemed a flaw in his depiction when my viewing was more casual, now outstripped my loneliness as the major reason I was not unhappy to bump into him.
In order to one-up my brother’s mating dance, I undertook a bit of research into the sex practices of odd couples going back for centuries. Strangely at the time, if quite predictably to you, I seemed to feel the coziest and greatest kinship with a thread of history’s most heinous boy-killers, in particular the doings of one obscure but fascinating German individual.
Klaus Freeh was a particle scientist who thought if he could humanize his grasp of nanoparticulates, he might become the world’s first genius cannibal. Fatally stabbed by the very first boy-slash-future-slab-of-meat he abducted, he left behind a notebook in which he’d repeatedly sketched and expounded upon “the perfect human storm,” as he described it—a body type that, according to his findings, would both render art superfluous and, were Germany a jungle, send rivulets of spit down its population’s teeth.
I should add out of fairness that his theories have been razored into kookyville by every learned historian for whom the cannibal is second nature, their opinion being that Freeh was just a sick fuck, and no evidence suggests that human taste buds are as picky as he posited.
Need I even say that, at least in his scanned drawings I found online, had some fashion designer thought to translate them into couture, Alfonse’s body could have smoothed them into leotards.
In the weeks since Alfonse muscled through the sheen of my resemblance, he’d been cast as the romantic lead in every reverie I concocted. There wasn’t a harmful prank or convoluted fuckfest that his imaginary figment hadn’t rehearsed to a Kubrickian finish, but it wasn’t until Freeh’s ill-starred masterstroke hit home that I’d made my final cut.
I hadn’t chewed and swallowed anyone as of the period in question, but I’d felt and thought everything violent and ruinous of my clothing this side of actually combusting into a pack of hungry tigers every time I got a hard-on.
I’d never even cooked myself an omelet. The illusory skin wedged between my fairyland of teeth would puncture like a bubble, tear from each anatomy with a pleasant-sounding rip, and be transformed by my obedient taste buds from knotty, sopping flesh and muscle into a favorite food, which at that time was spaghetti bolognaise.
Having preemptively tagged myself as gay, I was still too in thrall to the same-sex party line that an acrobatic fuck was the mom and pop of making out, and any partnership more offbeat, much less one that challenged laws both French and biblical, constituted one’s self-hatred.
By the way, I just had an awful thought—one you’ve no doubt been musing on for pages. Christ, I do go on, is what I thought, and my fingers literally tensed above the keyboard.
Rather than offer you some insincere apology, I’ll make a slightly premature admission that, if you think I’ve dragged my story from its bearings—namely, the serpentine chateau, its secretive owner, his doomed son Serge—and that I’ve lost my proper place within it as your talky host—you’re . . . half
The weakest part of his impression had always been its hollowness, although I’ll grant that void was not particularly his fault. I’m no extrovert, even when I’m yelling, “Die, you piece of shit,” and every precocious, news-making ten-year-old “new Mozart” in the world is eventually discovered to be a piano-playing parrot.
Alfonse modeled the mechanics of my presence, but while his forgery was dutiful, it lacked the telltale oomph that came with my perverseness.
This lost ingredient, while piddling in the grander scheme of me—think of the line between the “car” an actor “drives” into a “wall” and the car-like prop in which his lifelike dummy burns alive—and which had never seemed a flaw in his depiction when my viewing was more casual, now outstripped my loneliness as the major reason I was not unhappy to bump into him.
In order to one-up my brother’s mating dance, I undertook a bit of research into the sex practices of odd couples going back for centuries. Strangely at the time, if quite predictably to you, I seemed to feel the coziest and greatest kinship with a thread of history’s most heinous boy-killers, in particular the doings of one obscure but fascinating German individual.
Klaus Freeh was a particle scientist who thought if he could humanize his grasp of nanoparticulates, he might become the world’s first genius cannibal. Fatally stabbed by the very first boy-slash-future-slab-of-meat he abducted, he left behind a notebook in which he’d repeatedly sketched and expounded upon “the perfect human storm,” as he described it—a body type that, according to his findings, would both render art superfluous and, were Germany a jungle, send rivulets of spit down its population’s teeth.
I should add out of fairness that his theories have been razored into kookyville by every learned historian for whom the cannibal is second nature, their opinion being that Freeh was just a sick fuck, and no evidence suggests that human taste buds are as picky as he posited.
Need I even say that, at least in his scanned drawings I found online, had some fashion designer thought to translate them into couture, Alfonse’s body could have smoothed them into leotards.
In the weeks since Alfonse muscled through the sheen of my resemblance, he’d been cast as the romantic lead in every reverie I concocted. There wasn’t a harmful prank or convoluted fuckfest that his imaginary figment hadn’t rehearsed to a Kubrickian finish, but it wasn’t until Freeh’s ill-starred masterstroke hit home that I’d made my final cut.
I hadn’t chewed and swallowed anyone as of the period in question, but I’d felt and thought everything violent and ruinous of my clothing this side of actually combusting into a pack of hungry tigers every time I got a hard-on.
I’d never even cooked myself an omelet. The illusory skin wedged between my fairyland of teeth would puncture like a bubble, tear from each anatomy with a pleasant-sounding rip, and be transformed by my obedient taste buds from knotty, sopping flesh and muscle into a favorite food, which at that time was spaghetti bolognaise.
Having preemptively tagged myself as gay, I was still too in thrall to the same-sex party line that an acrobatic fuck was the mom and pop of making out, and any partnership more offbeat, much less one that challenged laws both French and biblical, constituted one’s self-hatred.
By the way, I just had an awful thought—one you’ve no doubt been musing on for pages. Christ, I do go on, is what I thought, and my fingers literally tensed above the keyboard.
Rather than offer you some insincere apology, I’ll make a slightly premature admission that, if you think I’ve dragged my story from its bearings—namely, the serpentine chateau, its secretive owner, his doomed son Serge—and that I’ve lost my proper place within it as your talky host—you’re . . . half
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